


After Eichen

by Anony_mouse3



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Multi, Post 5B, Recovery from Eichen House, Stydia, eichen house
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:39:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7529467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anony_mouse3/pseuds/Anony_mouse3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Because I thought things were going to be different after Eichen. Because we rescued her and I would keep her safe. Because she was finally home where we would be able to protect her. But there’s no bursting in and saving her when the trauma is happening inside of her own head. She’s not having a panic attack, Allison. I can’t just kiss her until she stops breathing long enough to realize she’s going to be okay.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Friendly Neighborhood Poltergeist

“No. Definitely, absolutely not,” Stiles says, gesturing wildly with his hands as he paces between his bed and the door. It’s 3:30 in the morning on a Wednesday, and to be honest he’s getting a bit tired, literally, of these unexpected visits. “I am not, repeat, am not showing up on Lydia’s doorstep at this hour.”

“But she’s my-“

 “Yeah, yeah, I know she’s your best friend, Allison,” he says. “Was, I mean,” he adds, all of the frustration from before having vanished from his voice. He decides to give the carpet a break, taking a seat next to her on the bed. “That, uh, wasn’t supposed to come out like that,” he begins. “Lydia will always be your best friend.” 

“Well it’s not exactly like I’m in the position to go out and make more, now is it?” She allows Stiles to enjoy the silence for a few moments before delving into what she really wants to talk about- what she always seems to have on her mind during these late night appearances. “All I’m trying to say is that Lydia is, was, the closest friend I ever had. So if anyone is qualified to recognize that she’s hurting, it’s me.” 

“I know that,” he whispers, not chancing a glance in her direction.

“No, Stiles, you don’t know. You can’t possibly know, because the Stiles _I_ know couldn’t see how much pain Lydia’s in and continue to do nothing about it,” Allison stands up as she utters the final words, wringing her hands as she leans against his bedroom door. “This is Lydia, the girl you’ve been in love with since you were still sipping juice boxes and sitting in a circle reading _The BFG_. Are you seriously expecting me to believe that in the ten years you’ve known each other, you haven’t learned enough to notice when something is really not right with her?” The anger seeping into her voice is enough to make Stiles look up.

“You honestly think I don’t see it? Think I don’t notice the circles under her eyes? The way she spends more time picking at her food than eating it, if she even decides to have lunch with us at all? How a life or death situation is pretty much the only way to get her into the same room as her friends? The way she nearly jumps out of her seat at the sound of someone setting their textbook down? Because it reminds her of the time she spent in that sorry excuse for a medical facility, whether she’s willing to admit it or not? You think I can’t make a pretty good guess as to why she hasn’t voluntarily made eye contact with a single one of us in months? She’s fucking terrified, Allison! She’s scared out of her freaking mind and every single thing in this hellish town makes it harder for her to feel safe, including me,” he’d clenched his fists, nails biting into palms, at finally having admitted that last part. He’d hoped the pain in his hands would prevent the other pain from escaping his mouth, but it hadn’t been enough. He gives up, dropping into a seated position on the floor at the foot of his bed, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

The floor creaks as Allison sits down across from him, back still pressed against the door. “You really are here, aren’t you?” He asks.

 “Really does seem that way, huh?” She replies. She shakes her head gently and smiles. It isn’t the smile that made half of the guys in Beacon Hills, Scott included, fall in love with her; it’s the saddest smile Stiles has ever seen, and he wishes for nothing more than to be able to say it’s the first time he’s ever seen it, but it isn’t.

 “Don’t get me wrong, Allison, I still get the urge to cry happy tears every time I wake up to you sitting on the edge of my bed. But if you can be here with me, why can’t you be there for Lydia yourself? We both know it’s what you want,” he says.

 “As much as I want to be there for Lydia, I just don’t… It’s just not me who she needs right now,” she says. “She needs you, Stiles. She wants you.”

 “Lydia looks at me and sees every horrible thing that’s happened to her in the past year,” Stiles says, realizing he’s whispering again. “Do you know what that’s like? To love someone and to wake up each morning just to remember that it’s thoughts of you that are contributing to the fear that keeps them awake all night?” he asks. “She needs comfort, not a sick reminder.”

 “What exactly do you think I am, Stiles, if not a sick reminder?”

 “Uh, friendly neighborhood poltergeist with a penchant for tormenting heartbroken teenage boys, particularly ones named Stiles?” Honestly, she’s a bit disappointed in herself for not seeing that one coming. However, it doesn’t stop a small smile- one of the good ones- from tugging at the corners of her lips. She leans over and lightly punches him in the shoulder, a light thud resounding through the room.

 “Seriously though, are you here or not? Because if you really are here, in my room, inches from my bed, in all of your hot-girl-by-day, kickass-hunter-by-night glory, Scott is going to be pissed,” he says, putting his hands up in surrender. This time, he manages to get a whole laugh from her.

 “Enough with the stalling, Stilinski,” she says when she’s able to put on a straight face.

 “I’m not- “, but he stops when he sees the look she’s giving him. It’s the kind of look that reminds him that Allison is, in fact, an Argent, and could probably give him an agonizingly slow death if she wanted to, even from the grave. “Okay, I’m done.”

 “If I were to go see Lydia, I wouldn’t be delivering her the reassuring embrace of a friend long lost. I represent every horrible thing that’s happened to her in Beacon Hills. Seeing her dead best friend is just going to further remind her what it is, exactly, that she has to be afraid of.” For the first time in a long time, Stiles really doesn’t have anything to say.

 “If it were just me, and not this,” she pauses to gesture to herself, “version of me, it might be okay. But I’m dead, Stiles. I’m gone and as far as I know, I’m never coming back. Lydia needs someone real, someone that she doesn’t still grieve over every night.”

 “She doesn’t look at you and see reasons to be afraid. Yes, you were there for all of the bad things, there’s no denying that. But Stiles, you were always the one rushing in to save her. From Peter Hale, from the Dread Doctors, from _yourself_. Lydia looks at you and sees all of the reasons she’s always made it out okay, including the fact that your faith in her is so unwavering that she can’t help but feel a bit stronger when you’re around. So if there is anyone in the world who makes her feel less terrified, it’s you,” she waits for him to say something but minutes pass and he remains silent. “For the first time in over a year, Lydia Martin really needs you, and you’re nowhere to be found.” She watches the exaggerated rising and falling of his chest, his nostrils widening and narrowing in time with his breathing. She can see that he’s working the right side of his jaw in thought, just as she can see the muscles in his hands lightly contracting and releasing. But his eyes don’t shift to meet hers, not even for a second.

 It’s just past four by the time he breaks the silence. “What happens if you’re wrong?” She opens her mouth to speak but Stiles is already moving on. “Because I thought things were going to be different after Eichen. Because we rescued her and I would keep her safe. Because she was finally home where we would be able to protect her. But there’s no bursting in and saving her when the trauma is happening inside of her own head. She’s not having a panic attack, Allison. I can’t just kiss her until she stops breathing long enough to realize she’s going to be okay.” He moves to rest his head in his hands again.

 “I don’t know how to help her this time,” he finishes, trying hard to conceal the cracking in his voice.

 “Stiles, you are so smart. You might not be Lydia-smart, but you’re too smart to get hung up on this. Have you ever thought that maybe it doesn’t matter if you know exactly what to do? She feels safe with you. You’re the one who always figures it out; she said that. So she knows that when the time comes, you’ll either figure it out or help her do so.” Stiles scrambles to his feet.

 “I should go, shouldn’t I? That’s what you’re trying to tell me, right? That I should go find Lydia?” He’s already shrugged on his jacket by the end of his final question. He leans down to finish tying his shoes, his tattered wallet hanging from his mouth.

 “Finally, he gets it!” Allison cheers, raising her fists in the air. She’s standing by his open door now, the Jeep keys dangling from her index finger. Stiles yanks them out of her hand, nearly sprinting out of the room. He turns around at the last second, pulling her into a bear hug that lifts her feet four or five inches off of the ground.

 “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he says against the top of her head, the words muffled by her hair. 


	2. Bloodletting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "... and he’s about to reach out and touch her cheek and tell her to please, for the love of God, stop crying because he loves her and if he had to name a single substance on the whole Earth that could singlehandedly cause his downfall, it would be her tears."

It is the most nerve-wracking drive of his life and by the time he gets to her house, he has to circle around the block two more times before he can even think about getting out of the car. He knows she’s awake- he’s seen her through her window both times he’s passed the house. He isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. Relieved because he won’t have to confess his feelings to a drowsy, possibly drugged Lydia. Disappointed because if she’s awake at 4:35 in the morning, then she really hasn’t been sleeping since they brought her home. And because now he really has no excuse to just go home and save this conversation for later.

He climbs out of the Jeep and onto its hood, pulling out his phone once he’s gotten mildly comfortable. His thumb overs over her contact for a moment, just long enough for him to think that by the time Lydia gets out here, he might be hyperventilating and shaking so hard she’ll have to kiss him just to prevent him from passing out in her driveway. He presses send before the thought causes any real damage.

She picks up on the fourth ring. “Hello?” He has forgotten how to speak. “Stiles? Are you there?” She sounds exhausted.

“Oh, hi. Yes, sorry. Um, did I wake you up?” At this point he’s just glad he managed something semi-coherent.

“Uh, yeah. I passed out a few hours ago,” she replies. Even if he weren’t sitting outside of her house and even if he hadn’t witnessed up moving around her room up until she answered his call, Stiles would still be certain she’s lying. And he tells her just that.

“Lydia, I’m outside of your house. I know you weren’t asleep,” he says. There’s a long pause as he hears several drawers opening and closing. “Lyd- “

“I’m coming down,” she says, hanging up the phone immediately. She’s walking down the driveway toward him less than a minute later, wearing a fluffy bathrobe pulled tightly across her body. Stiles thinks she’s so pretty it hurts.

Sometimes when he spends a lot of time around her he tries to convince himself that he’s past the point of getting butterflies in his stomach every time she wears her hair in a messy braid or smiles at him or says his name in a teasing manner. Times like this are what assure him of how very wrong he is.

“So, uh, how’s your evening been?” he asks as she comes to a stop in front of him, her arms crossed over her chest.

“What are you doing here, Stiles?” she replies, a bit harshly, might he add.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” he says, praying she doesn’t notice how badly his hands are shaking.

“I’m fine.” She looks down the street, away from Stiles. “Look, I know you didn’t drive all of the way here to ask me if I’m – “

“Do you have the nightmares, too? Sometimes when I’m sleeping, I’ll hear the sound of the Doctors’ footsteps. I mean, I know it’s not them. I know it’s probably just my dad getting ready to leave for work in the middle of the night. But once I hear the footsteps, it’s hard to stop the rest of it from hijacking my dreams, too.” He dares to glance up from his shoes, but Lydia still isn’t looking at him.

“But you’re probably fine… And I’m really just making myself sound kind of pathetic at this point, aren’t I?” Still nothing. “You know what, don’t answer that.” He toes the ground with the tip of his shoe, running out of ideas. “I, uh, I just wanted to let you know that if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here. Or if they get too bad, you know you’re always welcome to stay with us. I mean, I would take the floor, obviously, and there’s no pressure or anything I just figured that we used to make such a good team and maybe if we were together we wouldn’t feel as – “

“Yes,” she says. 

“You…?” He hopes she can’t tell that the sound of her voice just about knocked the wind out of him, because it did.

“A- About the nightmares. I have them, too,” she finishes. He can’t tell if she’s stuttering because of the cold or the subject matter.

“Oh, um, do you want to get inside of the Jeep?” he asks and she’s already making her way to the passenger side. He nearly trips in his rush to unlock the door. Unfortunately, the silence inside of the Jeep is no less awkward than the silence outside.

She turns to face out the window, and it’s only when he notices the soft shaking of her shoulders that he realizes she’s crying. And just like that, he feels the tears welling up in his own eyes, and the all too familiar and painful knot begins to form at the back of his throat, and he’s about to reach out and touch her cheek and tell her to please, for the love of God, stop crying because he loves her and if he had to name a single substance on the whole Earth that could singlehandedly cause his downfall, it would be her tears. His hand is about six inches from her face when she decides to speak, turning toward him just a little bit faster than he can move it to a less suspicious position. She doesn’t seem to care.

“Where have you been?” She asks, her voice breaking more than once as she forces the question out. It cuts into him like knife and he thinks about how doctors used to use bloodletting to treat ailments, and he thinks that maybe the wounds from her words will force all of the emotions out of him, so the way her lip is quivering right now won’t make him feel like the sorriest, most horrific excuse for a human being.

Instead he reaches out and snatches her into the most desperate hug he’s ever given, burying his face in her hair, and rubbing gentle circles on her back and shoulders until both of their tears have run dry.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m here, I’m here. I’m here.”


End file.
